Harry Potter and the Last Blood Caller
by drazzah
Summary: Harry Potter is having the worst summer of his life. While struggling with the events of fifth year, he is kidnapped from Privet Drive by his greatest enemy, and must attempt now to harness 'the power the Dark Lord knows not'. Through rocky friendships, distrust in nearly everyone around him, and many set-backs, can he find his place in the world and do what he was meant to do?
1. Chapter 1

Hi everyone! Story I've been kicking around for a long time, working on when I have the time. The updates won't be super frequent, but I have a bit of this story written already so I have a few chapters to post while I work on the rest.

This is set a month into the summer after Harry's fifth year. A lot of it is AU, but I tried to keep with the canon events as much as possible up until this point.

Hope you enjoy!

Drazzah.

P.S. - As always, not mine! Can't hope to match the beautiful J.K. Rowling.

* * *

Harry Potter had always known he was odd.

Not only because his relatives had called him a freak since he'd been small, hating him for reasons unknown. Or because of the curious incidents that always happened around him. Not even because he had somehow defeated the most evil wizard in the world when he'd been a baby. As he'd grown up and learned most the answers to all of these questions, he'd still known.

Something was wrong with him.

Even compared to all of the strangeness that permeated the wizarding world, this was something.. different. Unique even. Which was saying something after the past five years at Hogwarts.

It was more unique than being a Parseltongue, or about having a prophecy that stated he was meant to kill Voldemort and return peace to the magical world – or die trying.

Harry couldn't deny that he seemed to attract trouble. Bravery, Dumbledore had called it more than once. His annoying Gryffindor tendencies, as Professor Snape would scathingly term it. Hermione had once said that he had a saving people thing, that he played the hero. They were all somewhat correct in their own ways, if he was being honest.

But he also knew it wasn't completely his fault: there was an evil wizard trying to kill him, along with his many loyal followers. That did complicate a teenagers life quite a bit.

Harry smiled humorlessly. He refocused his eyes, staring at the cold steel bars that filled his vision. He was locked up again this summer.. except he wasn't in his gloomy bedroom at Privet Drive. No, he was in a much more dangerous position at the moment. But even through the waves of agony and extreme tiredness he couldn't bring himself to care much. There wasn't anything he could do at the moment except to lay here and wait for an opening anyways. He didn't really feel he had much of a chance to escape.. this was a very bad situation to be in, being Voldemort's prisoner and all.

Harry had been in a state of lethargy and weary numbness in the first month of summer, and despite his circumstances right now, it hadn't changed all that much. At least it made it easier to mentally escape the ministrations of the Death Eaters. Voldemort was apparently saving his own finale - meaning Harry's murder - for later on.

He should be very concerned at the moment, with his demise imminent. He should be a mess of nerves and panic. But he didn't care.

Not since Sirius.

He had to swallow around the lump forming in his throat, but he refused to cry. More accurately, he _couldn't_ cry, and he hadn't since that whirlwind of anger and destruction and revelations in Dumbledore's office at the end of term. He'd released a few tears at the overwhelming torment of the _Crucio_ 's and other pain-inducing spells and hexes, but they didn't cause any relief. Quite the opposite.

His emotions seemed to settle like a weight within his stomach, underneath a blanket of numbness. He _wanted_ to let it all out, to get rid of the terrible suffocating press of his own feelings, but he couldn't bring himself to. Or just plain couldn't. Certainly not here, surrounded by his enemies. Nor at Privet Drive, the short month he'd been there. His relatives had, after all, punished him simply for being apathetic and lethargic.

It was hard to get the reaction you wanted when your target didn't care. It was hard to imagine what they would have done if he'd been carrying on.

His blank eyes tracked the bright crimson drop that landed on the dull concrete floor from his split lip, joining the small puddle underneath where his face was pressed to the stone. He was laying on his side, doing what he always did: waiting for some sign to act. Trying to collect some energy to do it when the time came.

It was the sight of his blood that had sent him on these musings while he was enduring his enforced stay in the abandoned manor where Voldemort was holding court at the moment.

Because blood was exactly his problem.

Somehow, it called to him.

He'd noticed it for the first time when he'd placed his hands on Quirrell's face when he'd gone to save the Philosopher's stone. Instead of being morbidly focused on the skin that burned and crumbled at his touch, he'd felt the _blood_ underneath that skin. He'd connected to the beat of the man's panicked heart, to the blood boiling underneath the pressure of his fingertips. It had scared him silly. In fact, he'd convinced himself that he had imagined it. When Dumbledore had explained to him about his mother's sacrifice and the protection she'd given him, he'd been relieved. Of course that was it. The rest of it was just a coincidence. He'd killed a man, after all. He was bound to be a little messed up.

But then in the Chamber of Secrets, when he'd been fatally wounded by the basilisk, he'd felt the call of blood once again.. except inside of himself. His blood had been contaminated, and he had felt the spread of the poison as it leached through his veins. He could have counted the exact seconds that it would have taken for it to reach his heart. He'd even had an odd instinct to cleanse himself, to filter out the venom of the ancient serpent, but he'd been unable to when he'd tried.

But Fawkes had healed him, and he'd found himself caught up with killing Riddle's memory, checking on Ginny, and gathering up the sword and hat to flee for safety, so he'd put the odd reaction aside.

It wasn't until later in Dumbledore's study, when the old wizard had given him a curious look after he'd described being bitten and healed by the phoenix, that it came back to him. In the following days he'd learned why Dumbledore had looked at him so, by asking Hermione and consulting a few choice books. Apparently he should have had _some_ adverse affects to being poisoned, despite Fawkes' healing him with his tears. Phoenix tears may be a cure, but they apparently did not instantly render their recipient perfectly healthy, as Harry had been when they'd finally emerged from the legendary Chamber.

That was the first time he'd really known something was different. And worse, Dumbledore had sensed it as well. Maybe everything would have been different if he'd confided in the wizard that day; he'd never know now. But he'd instinctively kept it to himself. He'd had a bad track record when it came to revealing information about himself.

As in, he tended to get punished in some way.

Harry knew that people kept secrets from him, obviously, if this past year was any indication. He was young, he had Voldemort in his head; whatever the reason, the adults in his life had always kept important information from him. Him being a wizard. How James and Lily had died. The reason _why_ he'd needed those disastrous Occlumency lessons. Why he was forced to return to the Dursley's every summer, despite asking not to go.

The prophecy.

So he'd begun taking it upon himself to fill the gaps this past year. He'd begun reading, _a lot_. Used his cloak to enter the restricted section over and over again. Raided Sirius' library when he was at Grimmauld Place, before the events at the Ministry. When he'd started Occlumency, he'd read about that as well, hoping to find a way he could learn it since Snape's teachings had been nothing short of disastrous.. for all the good that had done him in the end. There was apparently a trick he wasn't picking up, but damned if he'd been able to ask Snape candidly about it. Bloody git that he was.

He'd used the library so much that even Hermione had become concerned for him. Between visions and nightmares, Umbridge's detentions, and the DA, he'd spent all of his free time this past school year on homework and reading. It wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be; there was a lot of peace of mind to be had when you _knew_ things, and felt prepared for whatever might happen. And apparently when you were The-Boy-Who-Lived, too much happened to you out of your control.

He was sure Ron thought it was odd as well, but they'd had quite the falling-out, so he wasn't exactly speaking to his best friend. The tensions that had risen last year during the Tri-Wizard Tournament had never really gone away, and then this year things had come to a head with another silly argument. The vision he'd had of Mr. Weasley had been the proverbial straw. The Weasley's, despite being ridiculously pleased that Arthur hadn't died, had pulled back from him. With Percy spouting his nonsense, and the friction between him and Ron, it shouldn't have surprised Harry as much as it had. He'd thought of them as a second family.. but of course their family came first. He knew that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley weren't OK with abandoning Harry, but if they had to choose between his happiness and their children's.. well, Harry already knew what they'd chosen, didn't he?

Especially after that fiasco at the Department of Mysteries. Ron had come along, as part of that core of the DA. But it had nearly cost the Weasley's two of their children. Harry thought about that a lot when he was feeling upset over the loneliness he was experiencing.

Sometimes, when he met Ron's eye in the Great Hall or in their dorm, he could see regret and something like longing in his expression. He probably did want to make up with Harry, and Harry could feel that same yearning within himself. But they were both too stubborn to sit down and make up, despite Hermione prompting and nudging them both constantly throughout the last half of the year. At least Ginny and the Twins had outright refused to abandon Harry; they made a point to speak to Harry and sit with him every chance they got, much to Ron's embarrassed anger. He felt a twinge at knowing the two troublemakers were finished with Hogwarts once and for all – not that he blamed them. If Harry could have left in such a spectacular fashion and humiliated Umbridge in the process he would have in a heartbeat.

Despite Ginny assuring him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley still considered Harry part of the family, he didn't feel it was right to barge in without Ron's approval.. he was only close to them because of his long-time friend, after all. He just wished things were different. But another part of him was sort of.. relieved.

With Voldemort being able to look through Harry's eyes, he was a danger to all of his friends and to the Headmaster. And to the war. Voldemort would just love to get his hands on the Weasley's, and he could do it through Harry. He'd learned how much they meant to him, after all. He knew quite a lot about Harry.

Although Harry _had_ managed – somehow - to keep this one secret from everyone. He still had no idea how he'd lucked out with Snape digging around in his mind, but he was glad. Maybe he'd had more talent with Occlumency than either of them had realized.

So in a way, he was glad the Weasley's had pulled back from him for now. He sometimes believed that it was better to be alone. At least until the prophecy came to pass. Harry didn't want to lose anyone else. Sirius' death had almost broken him, if his emotional state was any indicator. Or maybe it was the combination of loss and the great stress that year after year brought as he clashed with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. It could damn bloody-well be anything, but Harry knew he wasn't coping properly. Or maybe the word was 'normally'.

He snorted weakly. Normal was relative, wasn't it? Harry would never be normal, until the day he died.

And then, well, everyone was equal in death.


	2. Chapter 2

_He snorted weakly. Normal was relative, wasn't it? Harry would never be normal, until the day he died._

 _And then, well, everyone was equal in death._

* * *

A loud _clang_ startled him out of his thoughts momentarily. One of the two guards posted outside of his odd cell had banged his fist into the thick bars, and was sneering over his shoulder at Harry in a way reminiscent of Snape.

"Something funny, Potter? Don't think you're going to get any help now. You will die by the Dark Lord's hand this time; no lucky escapes or rescues in your short future." His masked partner exchanged what he assumed was a grin with each other.

Harry shrugged.

He agreed with the despicable man, after all. Dumbledore and the Order would never find this place. It was a fully warded property in some far-off place, filled to the brim with Voldemort's power. But the lucky escape.. well, that was really Harry's only hope. He was still waiting for that sign.

He hauled himself up to slump against the rough brick wall behind him, biting his lips bloody to keep his pained groan silent. Damn, but he hurt all over. What he wouldn't give to be under Madam Pomfrey's excellent care at the moment. But, like usual, he was left alone to his own devices.

He'd make do.

Harry was contemplating doing something risky. It was risky because he really wasn't sure it would work, and if Voldemort found out what he'd attempted to do, then he might not get a quick death at all. He might be experimented on. Because if there was one thing Voldemort revered over revenge, it was power and strength. The very things that Harry's unique abilities could grant him.

The one event Harry could pick out that had fueled his obsession with research and finding the truth about what he was had been during that terrifying trip to the graveyard. He'd _felt_ Cedric die. Felt his heart instantly stop, that final, shuddering thud, and his blood slowing with no force to push it throughout his veins.

Harry had taken a dazed moment, when he'd been staring at Cedric in horror, to wonder if perhaps he just had really good hearing. But no, nothing was overtly loud. He couldn't hear the insects in the grass, or whispers across the Great Hall.

Just blood.

He'd felt a wild urge to make Cedric's heart move again. And his will had reached out to that cooling blood and he had somehow _pushed_. He'd managed to glimpse Cedric's arm flop slightly, but luckily no one else had seen it, and, well, he'd been quite busy after that. But he hadn't imagined that impossible twitch. Or the knowledge deep within him that he couldn't have done anything, because the dead could not be brought back so easily, if at all.

He would always wonder if Cedric had known what he'd tried to do when he'd visited in that ghostly apparition, when his and Voldemort's wands had locked. He would never find out.

Perhaps the real tipping point had been when Wormtail had taken his blood and added it to the gigantic cauldron bubbling away in the midst of the graves. He'd felt an inherent wrongness at someone using his blood, especially for such an act. Proper revulsion, or more? Harry still didn't know.

But he had seen Voldemort rise with Harry's own blood within his body, stronger than ever. Had seen the shocked face of Wormtail, and the flicker of surprise in Voldemort's ghastly red eyes as he'd taken stock of his new form. If they were surprised it had worked so well, then the only unsure variable in that potion had been _Harry's_ blood. It had sickened him to know that the uniqueness within him, whatever it may be, had perhaps been transferred to his greatest enemy.

That had pushed him into a frenzy of searching for the answers he needed to stay alive. He'd read so many books about blood, and being able to control or hear it, that he was sure the rest of his classmates and teachers thought him mad. When he'd been questioned, though never by Dumbledore, who had been avoiding him, after all, he'd given the same vague answers. A side project he'd taken on, something he'd heard that he wanted the answers to. On and on the excuses had gone, until they just retreated to monitor him at a distance.

Harry had been fine with that, of course. Especially because he didn't know if what he could do was dangerous to anyone else.

And then one spring day, not two months before he had been fooled by Voldemort and had inadvertently caused the death of the last of his family in a mad attempt to save him, he'd found the answer.

Harry was a Blood Caller.

Or a Blood Speaker, or Blood Healer. Whatever it was they were actually called, Harry had to be one, because from the description he'd _finally_ found within a text about ancient wizard abilities and powers, there was no other explanation. And he'd only found _that_ because he'd begun to specially order in books and tomes when he had exhausted his own resources.

The reason he hadn't been able to find any documentation of his own issues had been because the last Blood Caller had been well over a thousand years ago. They were believed to be an almost urban legend at this point, and there was no real concrete proof left in the world that they had actually existed, at least none that was believed.

But Harry couldn't help but believe it, because it had all been there. It wasn't necessarily him who was odd, it was that he had magical blood.. which he supposed made him special by the fact that it was flowing in his veins.

A bit like how he was only the Chosen One due to Voldemort choosing him to be when he had been a baby.

This magical blood had apparently been coveted in the past, enough that those with Harry's own gifts, or curse, as he'd come to believe, had endeavored to hide the fact that they possessed these abilities. People would want to own them, just to use their blood, or for experimentation.

That one had really made him sick to his stomach. But Harry could see why, when he had read further. He hasn't sure how much of what the author had recorded had been fact or speculation, but some of it was definitely what Harry had been experiencing since he'd first noticed that something was wrong.

A resistance to poison – that explained the Basilisk. Being able to hear hearts beating and blood flowing within another person - check. Certain potions and magics affecting his blood being ineffective.. Harry could now remember Madam Pomfrey being baffled when she had tried to spell a Blood Replenishing potion into his stomach, only to find that it had had no effect. He'd thought nothing of it at the time, but now he knew better. Blood Replenishers and other potions like it were meant to be used on regular blood. Harry supposed his was sort of like an all new blood type, that was incompatible with all others except in what it could do magically. Sort of like the ultimate universal donor.

Then there was what he'd been shocked to discover his blood _really_ did. While unable to heal himself, his blood could supposedly be used to heal other people. Thank Merlin he'd never had occasion to be desperate enough to attempt that. And this, Harry knew, was why people with these powers had been persecuted in the past. No need to carry around potions, and if you lost your wand – well, you had a person who could easily heal you just as well, if not better. Someone whose blood could be added to certain potions to make them truly spectacular. Someone whose blood you could sell for profit, if that was your desire.

Harry shuddered when he thought that he had almost told Dumbledore. It wasn't that he though Dumbledore would really use him like that.. but was he sure? If an important ally needed to be healed quickly, the Headmaster would have asked Harry if there had been no alternative. Perhaps the Order may have wanted to have extra-effective pain potions, poison antidotes or healing potions.

Harry, who would have wanted to help the effort in whatever way he could, would have instantly agreed. Probably without considering the consequences of a number of other people knowing what he was.

And he really felt ill when he thought of what Professor Snape would have wanted from him.

No, he'd been right to keep his feelings of wrongness to himself. It couldn't have helped Sirius anyway, which had loosened one big knot within him when he had reasoned that out.

But it _could_ help Harry out of this newest prison. The accounts had been full of holes, and he was sure that the other Blood Callers had hidden as much of what they could do as possible. Harry knew from poring over whatever he could find that there were no recordings of someone actually _moving_ another person's blood. But Harry had done that.

So it stood to reason that there was a lot he still didn't know. And that was an all too familiar feeling for him.

Harry had had a lot of time to mull over his still-new powers while incarcerated. He didn't exactly know how long he had been here, but really, time was relative at the moment. He existed between bouts of torture and ridicule, and waited for either his escape or death. It really put everything into perspective.

His attention was caught when the door to the hall opened with a tremendous bang, slamming into the stone wall behind it. Harry couldn't see who it was from his slumped position behind the bars and the guards, but when a cool voice filled the chamber, he grimaced.

Lucius Malfoy was one of his most enthusiastic captors, much to Voldemort's delight.

"Ah, is the Chosen One still comfortable in his new accommodations?" The man spoke in his trademark smooth, cultured tones. The he chuckled lightly. "I must admit I have been remiss lately in my attentions to you. Children do so need discipline."

Harry grimaced, the tacky blood on his face pulling uncomfortably. He _really_ hated Malfoys.

"We will see each other soon enough, boy. I have but a quick errand to run with the Dark Lord, and then he has promised me the use of a rather... _intriguing_ spell that he has recently come across."

Harry pulled the real information out of the utter rubbish that came from the man's lips. Voldemort and some of his followers were leaving the manor. And, apparently, Voldemort had been studying new magics just as much as Harry, at least until his own progress had been brought to a screeching halt by his godfather's death. His breath hitched in his chest at the mere thought of Sirius, but he forced himself to listen to the elder Malfoy give instructions to Harry's Death Eater guards.

"We will be leaving _you_ in place, of course, as well as a few others. Only those who are closestto the Dark Lord will be at his side during this mission." His voice was mocking now, and from his limited view, Harry could see the guards feet shuffle slightly. "I trust you will not let anything happen to our esteemed guest, or you know what the consequences shall be." His voice had lowered dangerously, with a razor sharp edge to it.

Harry could hear the guards gulp in fear, their blood racing more quickly at the thought of how Voldemort would react if they failed. Harry could imagine, too. Death, if they were lucky.

He had wished for death once or twice in their last few 'sessions' as well.

Harry could use this, though. This was the sign he'd been waiting for. He wouldn't be able to muster strength after whatever they had planned for him later, and his days were dwindling away anyways.

It was time to act. To put his hunches about what he could do to the test.

What was the worst that could happen, after all?


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys! Quick thing before this chapter - I obviously changed around Percy Weasley's history a fair bit to make it fit better with the story. He was always one of the most aggravating characters to me in the books, lol, so this is the sort of plot line I would have been happier with I think.

* * *

 _Harry could use this, though. This was the sign he'd been waiting for. He wouldn't be able to muster strength after whatever they had planned for him later, and his days were dwindling away anyways._

 _It was time to act. To put his hunches about what he could do to the test._

 _What was the worst that could happen, after all?_

* * *

When Harry had been younger, around the age of six, he had once worked up the courage to try to watch a few of the shows Dudley had been allowed to. He had always been drawn to the loud excitement and laughter emanating from the telly.

He had worked up the courage to tiptoe to the den so that he could peek around the corner to find out what exactly his cousin watched every night after school. Harry had always wanted to see the pictures that matched the sounds he heard. To his surprise and confusion, there had been men fighting on screen to the enjoyment of a large audience.

Harry hadn't been able to see what the big deal was, of course. He hated fighting; his cousins' friends picked on him enough as it was.

But he had seen the bigger man, muscles bulging, put the other man in a sort of headlock. And he'd been dismayed to see the other one pass out, red-faced and limp. It had made him queasy to watch such a thing. But his cousin had found it utterly hilarious, cheering for the victor through his mouthful of crisps.

At least until he'd spotted Harry, who had quite forgotten to be stealthy.

Harry had paid for that one.

But he'd learned about the television show they called 'wrestling' that day, and that this type of fight was usually choreographed. He had learned later on that the move was coined a 'stranglehold' and it was used to make your opponent pass out from lack of blood-flow to the brain.

Harry had often, even at a young age – or perhaps _because_ of a childhood of having most everything withheld from him – wanted to know whatever he could. It hadn't served him wrong as of yet to know the truth concerning what went on around him. In fact it had saved his life time and time again.

It was _not_ knowing that killed people.

He had often found his thoughts muzzy and dull with fatigue, fear and hopelessness here in the abandoned manor.. along with the pain. Harry couldn't forget the pain if he tried.

But it meant that while he was slowly and painstakingly wracking his brain on how to use his curse, or gift, or whatever one wanted to term it, he had come across this long-ago memory of glimpsing Dudley's favorite show.

If he could control blood, could he not also replicate a stranglehold by stopping it from moving into the brain long enough for his guards to lose consciousness?

Harry was still reluctant to murder any of these people, Death Eaters or not. He wasn't on their level.

At least not yet.

He weakly straightened trembling limbs until he was in some semblance of a sitting posture against the rough stone of the cell wall behind him. He had no idea if it was going to work, but well-honed instincts told him that he was on the right track. They'd saved his life so many times that he felt obligated to trust them, even now.

Even still, after Sirius.

Now he just had to wait a reasonable amount of time until Voldemort and his contingent of loyal followers departed to do Merlin only knows what. Once he got free – _if_ he got free – he would figure the rest out as it came.

Except for his wand. He needed to get it before he left. Maybe it was silly – after all, he couldn't _use_ the wand if he died trying to retrieve it, but Harry couldn't bear to have it in their hands. To not have the only other defense he was aware of taken away. If Voldemort did not want to fight him with his own wand, due to their matching cores, then Harry had a slight advantage.

So, he would damn well try.

He was leaving too much to chance. But chances were slim for him either way, he figured.

* * *

"There is still no word of the boy, Albus, even among the more.. _questionable_ sources."

The old wizard turned at these words, and Snape nearly grimaced at how tired and downtrodden the man looked. It was as if he had aged a decade in a few short weeks. Which, for a wizard as old as Albus Dumbledore, that was saying something.

He knew why, of course. The Hogwarts staff and all of the members of the Order, and due to Fudge's pandering to the media, the entire wizarding world as a whole, were well aware of what could cause Albus Dumbledore so much stress.

Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, had been missing for twelve days, ten hours, and forty-three long minutes.

Not that Snape had bothered to keep count.

Even he, with the rather.. strained relationship he had with the boy, could admit that he was concerned. The headstrong Gryffindor was not dead yet, of that at least he was certain. They surely would have heard of that by now, what with the Dark Lord's penchant for gloating. Harry Potter was his biggest source of failure, his most coveted prize, his ever-present obstacle and annoyance.

But they had heard not one word since that day at Privet Drive in Little Whinging.

They had been betrayed, of course. By a relatively new member of the Order who had reason to believe that Potter was better off dead, who did not yet know the prophecy. Whose misguided perceptions had caused him to believe that if they only gave the boy up, that Voldemort would stop hunting them so intently, giving them space to form a proper defense and get rid of him once and for all. What was one troublesome life in the scheme of things?

So he had arranged a meeting with Voldemort to inform him of the believed gap in the defenses of Privet Drive – the fact that Voldemort shared Harry Potter's blood. That had been all he had needed to act, were doubts from Dumbledore himself.

Percy Weasley had joined the Order during the past year. After Crouch had died during the Triwizard Tournament and Cornelius Fudge had been installed, he had begun having doubts. About what he was doing at the Ministry, about abandoning his family for his career, and mostly about the types of comments Fudge would make. He had apparently decided he did not like where his life was headed. So he had begun to speak to his mother and father again, and stiffly apologized to his brothers and sister for being a bit of a prat. He still believed in the Ministry and wanted to support the Minister. But he had also agreed to keep an eye out for certain information that could aid the Order. Because while Fudge refused to believe that the Dark Lord had returned, Percy knew. He wanted to help the war however he could.

Unfortunately, his way of helping their cause had been to take matters into his own hands, believing that the Ministry could help if only they had the space to do so. Believing that Fudge could be brought around to see their side.

He had only lived long enough to regret his betrayal, however. Once he had come clean about what he had done, to the horror of his family, he had explained that he trusted that the Ministry could deal with Voldemort once they did not have to constantly use energy dealing with Potter. By redirecting their energies, they would be able to organize the wizarding world to end the war once and for all. He had never quite forgiven Potter for leading Death Eaters into his sanctified world of politics and power, nor for Crouch being murdered simply in another plot to get to Harry Potter. For the danger the young wizard's presence brought to his family. He had never believed that there was a good reason that Voldemort kept after Harry, and that Harry was a troublemaker, angering the Ministry and Fudge, and so was simply a source of weakness. That the 'greater good' Dumbledore spoke of repeatedly reflected what he believed must happen: that Potter had to be sacrificed to give the world a focus, an anger against Voldemort, while simultaneously removing a hindrance to their cause.

However, he had underestimated that once he had revealed this, he was of no more use to the Dark Lord. Weasley had refused to be a continued source of information for him, nor did he want to join ranks with the Death Eaters.

And so, Voldemort had done what he was won't to do. He had cast a killing curse before the young man could even blink.

Of course, Severus had been detained at this fateful meeting himself. He could only thank Merlin that the middle Weasley child had had no idea of Snape's double agent status, so he could not have betrayed Severus' own true allegiances. But to leave the meeting would have been suicide. So he had been forced to stay and listen, and do nothing. The impotence chafed even now. He suspected that Voldemort had kept him so long purposefully, dispatching him after nearly every other Death Eater had been released to gather certain preparations for the attack at Privet Drive, Little Whinging.

By the time the Dark Lord _had_ let him return to Dumbledore, he had been too late to warn them of the impending abduction, as it was already well underway. He had been ordered by his Master to stay at Hogwarts, and to go aid the Order would have surely gotten him killed.

He had been able to do nothing.

Severus had been ignoring the burn in his stomach whenever that thought intruded upon his single-minded pursuit of any lead as to where the boy was.

So far, none of the Death Eater holds and hideaways had revealed any trace. Nor did he believe that he was being kept at an estate of a Death Eater, such as Malfoy Manor.

No, the Dark Lord would have arranged for a very special place to hold Harry Potter, and he had not shared that location with Severus. Perhaps he had not indulged any one of his followers with that knowledge – he did love to bestow surprises on those who were in his service, whether they were pleasant or utterly horrendous.

He was pulled from his musings as his mentor spoke, his usual jovial tones long-suppressed with worry and grief.

"I do not believe there will be any word, not until something drastic should happen." He strode over to check a few of his silver instruments, carefully deciphering the movements. It had become an hourly habit with the man, much to Severus' annoyance. He very well knew that those devices were a cross between a form of divination and mathematical probability, helped along with copious amounts of very strong magic.

Which meant, obviously, that they may be able to estimate an outcome, or tell of certain kinds of events immediately after they occur, but that was the extent of their helpfulness. He himself preferred more concrete methods.

However, he was familiar with the nuances of Albus' speech, and he took that comment to mean that they would not get any news unless Potter died, or Voldemort got something else he wanted out of the boy. Not very comforting news.

As of this moment, it seemed there was no hope for the war.

On top of all of that, if there needed to be more, Severus' own usefulness had severely dwindled. For reasons unknown, the Dark Lord had not called for him even once since the night of Potter's abduction. As such, he was reduced to using old contacts, going on reconnaissance missions, or, if the situation truly called for it, brewing a few choice potions.

So long he had spent as the Dark Lord's reluctant slave, and then as Dumbledore's willing one, all for it to not have mattered in the end.

He had always hated the Weasley family and their need to produce endless spawn. It had only been a matter of time until one had turned on them.

As for the consequences of the middle child's actions.. well, they had completely exhausted all means of finding Potter at this point in time, and were simply clutching at any piece of news or fresh idea. The Order was becoming increasingly disparate as each hour passed with no change and no word from any source whatsoever. Even the usually infallible Albus Dumbledore was in a mode of restless anticipation and dread.

Malfoy's former house-elf, Dobby, claimed he was blocked from finding the boy. The could not use blood magic without someone with the Potter bloodline, and as the Dursley family had been killed while the abduction took place, there _were_ no living relatives with close enough ties to Potter's own blood. All of the usual tracking spells and charms had been warded against by the Dark Lord, who knew better than most any other wizard or witch how to live without being found.

The only real hope Severus could see was that Potter could find a way out of his own predicament. Which, if any one individual was specially gifted with escaping danger, it would be the son of Jame's Potter.

Even the likelihood of that happening decreased rapidly with each passing day.

And so, all they could do in the meantime was wait for the outcome, in whichever way it may occur.

* * *

Harry waited until his straining ears could hear nothing but silence beyond the door that separated his cell from the main chamber. Once he was certain that they had left, he wasted no time. Really, he had no time _to_ waste. Whatever this errand may have been, it could take anywhere from twenty minutes to three hours.

With Harry's luck it would be the former.

He was only hesitating because he had no real idea of how to actually go about manipulating blood. He had only done it for that brief moment once, and he hadn't dared to try again in case someone got hurt due to his own malpractice.

He closed his aching eyes and tried to focus on the bigger guard. He had been the crueler of the two, most definitely. Harry felt less guilty about using him as a guinea pig in his haphazard escape plans.

He steadily breathed in and out, as much as his deeply bruised ribs would allow, anyways, and just listened to the mans blood. He did his best to tune out all other sounds and distractions, trying to link himself to the beat of his heart and the ebb and flow within his veins and arteries.

At first he felt nothing more than what he always felt when he listened to another in this way, and almost gave it up as utter nonsense that his very exhausted mind had given life to in his desperation.

But then he felt.. a sort of tingle. Deep within him. The type that he associated with the buildup to a powerful spell, or the sense he sometimes got when something big was about to happen.

He focused harder, trying to get a sense of how he could control that feeling and harness it into something useful. His breathing hitched as he strained to command the man's blood to _stop_. To not move into his head for but a moment.

Nothing was happening.

And then he was distantly aware through his concentration that the door was being cracked open, another man with an unfamiliar face popping his head into the gap and speaking to Harry's guards. He diverted half of his attention to the newcomer. Had they not left yet after all?

"The Dark Lord left instruction to bring the prisoner to the anteroom in one hours time. They should be returning then." With a sullen glare, perhaps put out that he wasn't as trusted as the two men in the cell room and certainly not as much as those who had departed, he disappeared with a loud bang as the door slammed shut.

Harry's own heart skipped a beat. _One hour._ He only had sixty minutes to escape and find safety while they looked for him. It seemed impossible.

He felt the fluttering of panic because a part of him realized that this was his last and only chance. He could _feel_ his own death approaching on silent wings. His breath quickened as he tried to do something, anything. He couldn't die now; he had to live to see Voldemort fall.

There was a slight snap to the air as both guards suddenly jolted, hands rising to their own throats and faces reddening.

Harry's eyes widened. But he hadn't done anything! He had lost his intense focus with his own anxiety.

As he watched in awed dismay, they began to sway, knees buckling and eyes rolling back in their skulls.

He tried to pull back on what he was apparently doing, but could find no hold. He scrambled towards the bars but stopped abruptly when they both fell face-first onto the cold stone flooring, utterly still.


	4. Chapter 4

Hi guys~!

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

 _As he watched in awed dismay, they began to sway, knees buckling and eyes rolling back in their skulls._

 _He tried to pull back on what he was apparently doing, but could find no hold. He scrambled towards the bars but stopped abruptly when they both fell face-first onto the cold stone flooring, utterly still._

* * *

Harry panted as his breathing tried to stabilize. He'd.. done it. Somehow. It seemed almost unreal.. but now he was locked in a cage, unless..

A careful study revealed one wand laying half under the smaller guard's right side, just out of reach of Harry's grasping fingers. That was his only way out.

He pressed his shoulder painfully into the rusted iron bars, straining to touch the polished handle of the light wood wand. His fingertip barely made contact, instead pushing it a bit farther away. He gritted his teeth around his own cursing and tried instead to hook the fabric of the man's robe.

 _Yes!_ He carefully got a large enough handful to try and tug the wizard himself closer. He grunted with the effort of pulling such a heavy load in his weakened state. But slowly, in small increments, he managed to draw the man in far enough to grasp the warm handle of his wand.

Harry wasted no time in waving an unlocking charm at the cell door, the only door in this manor that they bothered to lock, and standing unsteadily to exit. He checked the men, and could only feel a sort of disconnected resignation to find the man from whom he'd stolen his wand was dead.

 _It wasn't like he hadn't had it coming_ , he thought fiercely. _It's not like I meant to._ He shook his head and quickly searched them both, but only came up with the other unconscious man's wand. It was better than nothing.

Harry had no idea how long the man would be knocked out, so he simply waved a few spells over him, and hovered them both into the cell. His spells were rough due to the incompatible wand, but they were _working._ If he _did_ wake up, the binding and silencing spells should hold long enough for Harry to escape. He wished he had studied some sort of glamour or illusion spells to make it appear as if he were still there in the cell, but figured with his one hour deadline that wouldn't matter much.

He crept towards the door, listening with bated breath. But there was no sounds of movement or speech – no one was close enough to have heard the men choking and falling, it seemed. He grasped the tarnished brass handle in his admittedly shaky grip, turning it ever so slowly, easing the door open a scant inch. He continued to listen as hard as he could all the while. He couldn't move _too_ sluggishly if he wanted to be away from this place before anyone returned. But he also could not go rushing through the mansion like mad.

He had some sort of plan cobbled together in the back of his mind. Merlin knew he had had more than enough time to strategize about what would happen if he had actually managed to free himself from the cell without anyone interfering.

Harry figured that although the Trace was still active on him, using magic here wouldn't call the attention of the Ministry. He still wasn't entirely sure how the Trace actually worked – he doubted many wizards did. Dobby had gotten him blamed for the Hover charm in second year – but other wizards could do magic around him without it alerting the Ministry. So that meant that certain locations – like Hogwarts and the Express, obviously – weren't as strict.

Certainly the house of Harry Potter would have had a much tighter watch on it, but he suspected that certain wizarding locations were looser with the restrictions on underage magic. Wizarding villages and households, for example. And then certain spells, such as the Fidelius Charm, had to block such a thing, because the Ministry couldn't access the young wizard in question if they couldn't find them.

So surely Voldemort would have blocked this location from Sensory or Locating spells. He would not have risked Harry escaping or any rescuers finding him.

It was after Harry left the wards, if he got that far, that he would run into trouble. If he couldn't call Dobby or Kreacher – well, he couldn't book it out of here on foot, that was for sure. They would be on him before he'd gotten anywhere close to escaping.

As such, his plans were simply to sneak to the edge of the wards, summon his wand with the one that he had just stolen, and to run until he could call for help.

 _Simple, right? Not much that could go wrong at all_ , he thought sarcastically.

And so Harry tried to be as quiet as possible as he crept through once-lavish hallways. The place had been truly grand in the past, he could tell; the furnishings, the carpets, and the art all told a story of wealth. It must have been abandoned a long while before Voldemort had converted it to his stronghold. Now the opulent furnishings were rather like ghosts of a better time.

He had one hand braced on the peeling, stained wallpaper as he limped through one identical hallway after another – he hadn't seen much of his prison, really, just the cell room and the throne room in which Voldemort presided like a king over his court. That was where they had their.. fun.

But he knew enough to know that his cell was in the eastern wing of the house, and he was now moving towards the center in hopes of finding an escape route. He knew most of the windows were spelled shut, others boarded over. He had already tried those. It made sense that the doors would be the same – they would not have wanted so many exits on a place meant to keep people _in._

So he was hoping that there were two points of entry: the front door, and one at the back of the house. His instinct told him to head for the back door, that it would be less closely guarded. A large house like this would have a very open front lawn, and crossing that would be too dangerous anyways.

And speaking of danger, he was nearing the middle of the house, where most of the Death Eaters congregated. He could indeed hear muffled speech and a door opening and closing. Luckily, he had avoided running into any patrols from however many had been left behind.

It was getting hard to keep going by now. He could feel his injured and under-used muscles quivering at the unexpected exercise. His breath was coming in sharp pants, sweat pouring down his face. Part of it was that he hadn't gotten to move around much during his stay. But largely it was the pain radiating throughout his entire being. Harry couldn't seem to think of a single place that didn't hurt...

His eyes shot back open when his head met the wall. He hadn't even been aware of closing them. This wasn't good. He had to hurry up, or he would just collapse into a heap on the faded carpet, as good as dead.

He deep a deep, gulping breath, steeling himself to keep going. One foot after the other. There was an end to this, eventually. He just had to keep _moving_. He chanted to himself, trying to push himself to keep going. To stop was death. To continue.. well, it was less of a chance, anyways.

Harry had to duck into a few rooms along the way, as footsteps sounded beyond corners, coming in his direction. But they all passed without incident.

If he was timing it correctly, it had been just over a half hour since they had departed on their raid, or whatever mayhem they were currently causing. And so he had less than thirty minutes, most likely closer to twenty, to get the hell out of this place.

But the hallways seemed endless, and he couldn't tell how close he was at all. Minutes crawled by, and the only company he had was his loudly thudding heart. His borrowed wand shook in his sweaty palm. He was sure he was leaving smears of blood along the wallpaper from his hand, leading a trail right to him. But he couldn't do anything about any of this, so he trudged onward as quietly and quickly as he physically could at the moment. Which wasn't very much of either of those things.

Finally, but _finally_ , he came across a kitchen. One with big wide windows that showed the backyard, and a thick screen of trees just yards away from the door. _He had made it!_

He glanced around before entering, but it was deserted. Most of Voldemort's forces really _had_ left the estate. Thank Merlin for that.

Harry hobbled across the cracked linoleum flooring towards the exit, shaking now half in his yearning. _He was so close..._

He spun around, wobbling at the sharp movement, when a voice sounded from the doorway he had just come from.

"How did _you_ get out, boy!"

A short, portly figure in Death Eater robes as squinting at him from across the kitchen. He had seen that face before, in that graveyard two years ago. It was Goyle Sr.

Harry tightened his grip on the polished handle of his stolen wand, bringing it up to point at the man's chest.

He didn't hesitate, just shouted a Stunner right at the man, who seemed so shocked at being attacked, at the fact that Harry even had a wand, that he barely began to raise his own in defense. He blew backwards from Harry's spell, straight off his feet, landing with a resounding thud.

Harry whipped around and ripped the door open, breaking into a stumbling run. There was no way someone hadn't heard that.

Sure enough, after he had passed into the first few trees, he heard a shout from behind him. He dodged behind a large tree, and continued to walk as fast as possible, using the breadth of the tree to block their view of his retreating back. If they hadn't seen exactly where he'd gone, he had a chance.

He could hear sounds of pursuit, thankfully still far enough away. He just had to figure out where the end of the wards were.

Jogging now in his panic, he alternated between muttering Dobby and Kreacher's names as he moved, still hoping with everything he had that they could be called once he'd passed the boundary.

Harry tried to ignore the bolts of light behind him, as Death Eaters fired spells. Trigger-happy bunch that they were, they weren't aiming at him, so they were free to keep at it. He made sure to stagger from side to side, trying to position between bushes and sizable trees just in case they did see him.

The forest around Harry was getting increasingly dark in a menacing sort of way. Normally Harry _liked_ the forest, but this was more like the deadly depths of the Forbidden Forest. Anticipation and dread lay heavy in the air, while light and even the very air he was attempting to gasp in seemed to fade. The trees spun crazily around him, and he staggered to a halt in a small clearing, spinning around to get his bearings.

Harry gulped as he sank to his knees.

He didn't know what direction he had just come from. There were bolts and jets of colourful spells in the distance in at least three different directions.

Merlin, he was screwed.

"Dobby! _Kreacher!_ "

* * *

Dumbledore stood in a rush, arrowing straight for one of those blasted spindly instruments, immediately muttering and fiddling with the infernal thing.

Snape was about to scoff at the man's desperation, when Albus turned sharply towards him. He shut his mouth with a snap at the calculating look entering the older wizard's light blue eyes.

"Something has changed," He said without preamble.

"What has happened, Albus?" Snape queried, clenching his fists.

"I am not entirely sure, these cannot tell me what precisely has happened, only that something _has._ The probabilities surrounding Harry have shifted sharply."

Severus raised one brow, sure his face was reflecting his lack of excitement. "What does it mean, then?"

"It means, my dear boy, that Harry has once again, somehow against all odds, _increased_ his own odds. Which means hope is not lost. Forces are at work, battling one another for dominance. We cannot help, of course. But if they shift just a bit more, we shall have to be ready to move, and quickly."

"So," Snape said slowly, enunciating particularly clearly, as he did when annoyed, "You are saying that _some_ event has occurred, of which we do not know the nature of, but we are to do what we have been doing for the last two weeks since Mr. Potter's disappearance and simply _wait_."

Albus eyed him, in his own version of fond exasperation. "What it _means,_ Severus, is that we will know within as soon as an hour what is to happen to Harry. There will be an end, whichever way it may occur. We can only hope and put our trust in Harry, as always."

Before Severus could reply, the Headmaster clapped his hands once. "And so, this is what I need of you while I alert the Order and other key individuals. I trust you will not be too upset with me, but your task will be of particular importance.."

* * *

To Harry's utter astonishment, the cantankerous old house elf of Grimmauld Place appeared with a pop in front of him.

Harry gaped at him a moment, and turned to scan around him. The clearing must be just beyond the wards.

With a semi-hysterical laugh, he turned back to the creature, who was glaring sullenly at him and muttering.

"The half-blood calls Kreacher to such a dirty place, of course he does. If only Kreacher had gone to the noble Malfoy house, but no, his Mistress' house has been reduced to a Mudblood sanctuary, yes..."

"Shut up!" Harry snapped. He breathed harshly. He'd forgotten how infuriating the elf was. If only Dobby had come. But he could hear sounds of pursuit getting ever nearer and he leaned forward to whisper harshly.

"Kreacher, can you apparate me to Grimmauld Place?"

The elf eyed him through those narrow beady eyes. "Master knows Kreacher cannot apparate him through the wards, idiot boy knows this, why he asks Kreacher this, he does not know. Mistress would hate what her beloved house has come to.. safehouse for nasty Muggle-loving.."

Harry grabbed the soiled handkerchief Kreacher was wearing, determined not to yell at the creature. There were more important things to worry about..

"Please, Kreacher, can you apparate me to a spot close to Grimmauld Place, where no Death Eater's are? _Can you?_ " He asked desperately.

Getting to the front door of Sirius' house was his only hope, and he had to go before the Death Eater's began to gather there. They were currently combing the woods for him so he had just enough time..

Kreacher stared at him sideways with a slightly perturbed expression on his wrinkled, gnarled face. Must have been his use of the word 'please'.

But he nodded reluctantly, which was all Harry needed.

He raised his stolen wand and cried: " _Accio_ my wand!"

The shouts increased in volume, but Harry waited, focusing with all he had on his wand. He remembered those old lessons during the Triwizard tournament with Hermione, trying to summon his Firebolt, and used everything that he had learned to call his wand to him.

He knew it was coming.

But so were the Death Eaters.

He cried out and doubled over in pain, clutching at the fiery pain erupting from within his scar. _Oh no._ _Voldemort is coming back too. They summoned him._

This was really, _really_ , bad.

"Kreacher, get behind me out of sight. Please, when I say, apparate us out of here as close to Grimmauld Place as possible." He hissed, one hand grasping the house elf's shoulder, trying to shield him in case anyone ran in before his wand arrived. If they saw Kreacher they might know where he was escaping to, and he'd lose any chance he may have to get inside before they surrounded Headquarters. They would go there eventually, he knew that, but all that mattered now was how quickly they organized themselves.

Finally, just as the sounds of footsteps crashing through the forest floor were uncomfortably close, and Harry was dizzy with holding his breath in pure panic, he heard a whistling as his wand hurtled towards him. He was just able to see movement, and raised his other hand, dropping the two stolen wands in the process.

As his beloved wand _thwapped_ satisfyingly into his palm, and Death Eater's rushed into the edge of the clearing, he shouted: "NOW!"

There were lights, and a cutting pain, and a sickening swirling, and then he was unceremoniously slammed into unforgiving asphalt.

But somehow Harry had made it. He was laying face down in an alleyway, but he blearily recognized the rooftops beyond the cracked brick walls. Headquarters was close.

He turned to Kreacher weakly, and rasped, "Go ahead inside. I'll meet you there. Don't tell _anyone_ I'm here, _please_."

Kreacher gave him a dubious look, but obeyed with a muted _crack_.

Harry dragged himself into a swaying stand, stumbling towards the slowly appearing front step of Sirius' house.

He hurt, unbelievably so. He was tired and weak. He didn't know if he would make it after he made it inside, he was so run into the ground and wracked with agony.

But as he rushed through the front door, he could say that he was at least free.


End file.
